Morning Pleasure

Morning. Waking is slow, hazy, full of snoozes and press of naked warmth.
Grey dawnlight slowly filling the room, and the curl of your body against mine.
Skin to skin, back to beating heart, breasts lying heavily on your arm, drowsy half-hard heat against my ass. I am warm and safe and loved in this nest of pillows and high-thread count sheets, down comforter over me and your body tight to mine.

I almost don't remember it happening, it seems only natural, only normal, for your arm to wrap around the curve of my waist, stretch between my breasts, press into my sternum, and your fingers to wrap around my throat gently. It seems only natural, only right, for your hand to find the base of my throat and squeeze a little. And of course, it is only natural that my breath escapes in a rushing low moan, and my entire body arches back into you. It is only right that my legs part, ass grinding into you in reflexive plea.

I love this feeling- the heat of your body against mine, the langorous hum of my arousal infiltrating muscle and vein and wire-tight nerves. When your cock hardens against me, it's simple reflex to roll my hips against you, positioning you against my already-wet slit. When your hand tightens in my throat, it's automatic for mine to find the bedstead and cling there as though tied. And when your teeth find the back of my neck, there is little that could stop me from pressing back into you and pulling you inside of me hungrily.

Oh, I know that we will be running late soon, know that we could be interrupted any moment by a waking child, know that the slow easing of darkness presages a frantic morning... but right this moment, with your teeth in my skin and your fingers pressed into my throat, I cannot bring myself to care. Nothing in the world is as important right this moment as the fuzzing of my brain, the brief temporary quiet in my too-busy mind. Nothing in the world is as important right now as the slow slippery slide down the rabbit-hole into peaceful submission.

And then I am stretched tight around you, back arched away, connected only at your cock deep inside me and your hand wrapped around my throat. Every stroke seems to reach deeper like this, and I am wetter than I have any idea how I’ve managed so early in the morning, I who dislikes morning sex. But the slickness between my thighs gives lie to my usual disdain for it and my panting moans are hardly noises of contempt or impatience.
When you flip me onto my stomach, thighs tight against you and ass pressed into your hips, my entire body surrenders into yours. This position, physically comfortable yet completely helpless, is my hands-down favorite. I love the depth you reach inside of me, the inability to escape your hands, your body, your searching mouth and biting teeth, your cock heavy and full inside of me. I love the helplessness, love the angle, love the sensation of you filling me against my tightened pussy.

...and then, without warning, you are gone from me and there is only the lingering memory of your teeth in my skin as you whisper in my ear that you will finish this tonight, and far less gently.

Friday Night

Curled at your feet, the sense of comfort and safety is enough to allow some of the previous week's stress to slowly fade. Your hand in my hair, awareness of the rest of the world fading away like the tide retreating under the moon. Soft skin over hard muscle, your thigh beneath my cheek. Gentle weight of your tumescent cock against my face.
I can hear the TV in the background: Irish accents, gunshots, and a woman's voice. I can't bring myself to care. I can't bring myself to notice anything except the softness of the fleece beneath my knees, the weight of your hand in my hair, and the taste of your cock just outside of the reach of my lips.

The warmth of kisses, nibbles, and nips to your groin. Not touching your cock, not yet. Slow sucking kisses to your balls, rolling them gently around in my mouth. Leisurely toying with you; there is no hurry tonight. Nuzzling your cock, enjoying the heat and half-hardness against my face. Gentle nips to the crease of hip and groin, slow licking strokes to your perineum.
It is a slow, pleasant eternity before I take your cock into my mouth, suck you in slowly. Even this is gentle, leisurely. We have all the time in the world tonight, and I am tired and more interested in this focus on you without haste or urgency.

Your kilt is up around your hips now, my chemise brushed aside in your eagerness to toy with my wet pussy. You know what sucking you does to me, know the wetness you can expect without having ever touched me.  Your fingers are eager against me, skimming across my outer lips until I moan and rock my hips in wordless plea. Fingertips barely touch me as my inner lips part for you, allowing you easy access to my slippery center and coating your fingers with my arousal. A single hard press and your fingers are inside me, stretching me, and I am arching into you and screaming, low and wordless, offering myself, begging for more. When your fingers stroke that spot in me, my knees go weak, and I fall forward onto the table, only braced arms catching me in time. The sudden loss of you inside of me pulls me to my feet, whimpering inarticulately and starting to turn to you in confusion and loss but then your hand is in front of my face, fingers sticky with the scent of me and I am licking them eagerly, dragging your fingers into my mouth and sucking them clean with something close to desperation.

Bent back over, your hand between my shoulderblades a silent command as you enter me and I am writhing, whimpering, trying to be still but stretched so full and aching with it. Arched like this, your every stroke strikes my cervix and it hurts but with your hand pressing me into the table and your legs forcing mine open wider I almost don't care; I just want to please you.
Your hips are rough against mine, and I am losing my balance on my toes, arched to keep you inside of me. But every time I start to fall forward your hands are on my hips, dragging me back relentlessly and I am opening to you, arching into you until you drag me back... you sprawled on the couch and my body bent backwards over you. Your hand on my throat, on my breast, voice rough as you whisper into my ear to fuck you, please you, and my hips moving desperately to obey as I am stretched helpless and open to you. The utter helplessness of it drags me further under, and the burn in my thighs, growing soreness in my pussy: they are irrelevant against your pleasure and this delicious satisfaction of being completely used.

Finally, I am on my knees again, choking on you and my arousal is running down my thigh as I suck you. My hand is tight to my lips and my teeth are cutting into them, but it doesn't matter against the sounds that you're making. Somewhere far off, I know that I'll regret this in the morning, that I'll be sore, but I don't care right now when your hand is in my hand, urging me deeper and faster until I am choking on you with every stroke, deep throating you as often as I am able. With my free hand toying with your balls and stroking your perineum, I can feel you tightening, readying, and I am hungry for you. Speeding my own pace and deepening every stroke until my throat burns and my neck aches, I finally feel you arch into me and press me furhter down until my only choices are to swallow or choke and I swallow you eagerly, pressing myself as hard onto you as I can to simulate the last, deep stroke inside me as you cum.

Finally, I feel you start to come down, and with a secret smile, I stroke my tongue over your frenulum gently, softly, teasing the last shuddering ripples of pleasure from your orgasm before laying my head on your thigh and looking up at you with teasing innocence. "Feel better, Sir?"

Dreams

Your face across the table from mine, canines flashing as you smile. Red wine glass in your hand, liquid the color of blood flashing ruby-lit across your hand. Cruelty and promise in your eyes. Candlelight golden across your skin.
Shiver across mine. Your smile deepening as you note my chillbumps in the warm room.

In the car. I am driving, too much wine in your system to give you the keys. Dangerous promises in your posture; relaxed predatory recline across from me.
Your voice hoarse, a low command. "Open your legs as you drive." I obey without thought or question, only realizing a moment later that I've done so. My skirt rides up, but for once I'm thankful for my semi-modesty, and the fact that this jean skirt doesn't ride up easily. I wonder if you'll reach over, touch me where my thighs part for you as I drive. Half of me hopes you do, half of me fears wrecking the car.
The briefest skim of your fingers across my exposed skin as I pull into the driveway is enough, bringing the last half hour's arousal and anticipation into a singlequick gasp torn from my throat.

Later. Upstairs. You standing before me. Predatory smile activating the deepest prey centers in my brain, memories of times when humans still skittered about the trees in desperate attempts to avoid predators. Shivering, almost touching you. Heat so close it tightens my breasts, hardens my nipples. Your hands a slow skim down my arms, teasing hints at the heat of your body. I want to lean forward, close that blatantly artificial distance, but the evil in your smile roots me in place, afraid to move.

Flashes now:
Your hands skimming up my legs, thumbs brushing the center of me with a single teasing stroke before retreating again.
Your hand flat across my belly, pinning me down.
Your teeth in my throat, pleasurepainpleasurepain.
Hand around my breast, low moan dragged from my throat.
Fingers delicately pinching one small nipple, and my gasping scream.
Your laugh, a throaty, growling chuckle.
Your hand in the center of my chest, weight applied forcing me down, forcing me still, forcing air from my lungs until the weight and size of you controls even the flow of oxygen into my body.
Moaning whimper, hands grasping for you but blocked.
Flash of memory: your tie slipping froun around your neck. Silver and blue and silky tight around my wrists.

Teasing touches to the center of me, sharp pleading gasps, aching desperation and need for you...

And then, awakeness. A single pleading whimper before I slipped back into sleep... and far less pleasant dreams.

Prey Dreams

The woods around me are cool and green, but I don’t notice- not today. Rarely am I prey- I have reminded lovers more than once that I am a predator in my own right- but in this moment I am the frightened rabbit Rush named me for, bounding through the woods with fear hot on my heels.

Fear isn’t the only thing. My feet are pounding, bare into the cool earth, and while I know my own steps are loud, they aren’t as loud as those behind me. So rarely am I the one pursued in my dreams, but today, I am. Branches slap at my exposed skin, leaving welts of their own before you even begin to draw close, and every bush I dodge and tree trunk I leap seems to reach out and exact its own toll for passage… or perhaps it seeks to slow or catch me for your use.

I can hear your steps behind me, over my own labored breathing, and a glimpse back is enough to make me stumble. That stumble is enough to be my undoing, slowing me just enough for an animal leap and outstretched hand to force me to my knees, scrambling painfully in the dirt, trying desperately to rise before… but it is too late, and the full weight of your body lands across me, driving the air from my lungs with a surprised grunt.

I’m nearly useless until I can breathe again, able only to draw my knees up in a pathetic attempt at something between the fetal position and kicking you away. Your only response is a growling laugh- as much the beast as the man- and a deft yank at my legs to force them back down while I choke and wheeze and try to curl away from the heat and weight of your body across me. I won’t mention the secret whimpering desire to curl into you, instead.

My breath is slowly coming back, gasps of oxygen slowly drawing strength into my limbs, but my legs are already pinned by your weight and my wrists by your hands. Your face is nearly atop mine and I want to snap and bite like the captive animal I am at this moment, but the snarl on your lips is enough to freeze me in place.

I am reasonably certain that if I call a true halt to this, that you will. Reasonably certain that if I call ‘Red,’ that you will stand, help me up, and all will be finished. But there is a kernel of doubt in my mind, and that kernel  freezes my limbs and wets my thighs.

The ground is hard beneath my back, little sticks and sharp edged leaves cutting into my skin and I know I am bleeding from at least one of the scratches that line my body like whipmarks. I know it in a much more visceral sense when your snarl abruptly becomes a growl, your face lowering to my neck, dragging my wrists as you slowly smell down the length of my bare body, causing goosebumps in a strange cocktail of fear and slowly growing desire. The first bleeding scratch you find is along my ribcage, ironically just below the old barbed wire scar and your tongue is oddly raspy against it. For once, it doesn’t tickle and in fact makes me writhe in pain until you clamp down on my skin with sharp teeth, freezing me again with a gasp and small whimper.

In this moment, I feel more like prey than I may have ever before, frighteningly unsure of what exactly you intend but only certain that I have little to no choice in it. I am embarrassingly grateful that your teeth are relatively gentle, and as your cheek grazes my side, my breathing speeds up again but for entirely different reasons.

I know you can hear the change, and the touch of your face against my skin as you explore my body with the most primitive of senses holds a note of cruel playfulness now, knowing that my body will respond to you despite my mind’s screaming fear… or perhaps because of it. Abruptly, the teasing caress is replaced by your teeth again, this time in the soft skin of my belly. My strangled gasp is closer to a barely restrained scream, and I know you can smell the abrupt switch to fear-scent along my body. Your reaction is clear and completely primal as your body sinks into mine, hands tightening on my wrists with bruising force, and your teeth sinking into my skin with enough force to make me writhe and scream against you in something between need, pain, and utter terror.

Finally, finally, your teeth slowly release the now well-marked skin of my belly, leaving behind a scatter pattern of rounded teethmarks and a faint trembling throughout my body. Only now do you move farther down my body, and the trembling is of a different sort when your cheek grazes my exposed hip and your teeth skim the hollow between hip and mons.

I hear your breathing change now, scenting the steadily growing arousal between my thighs and it triggers a change in my own- high, keening whimpers of fear and desire as my mind flips between desire for your mouth on me and fear of your teeth in the most sensitive skin of my body.

The graze of your teeth across my labia are enough to make me cringe, and your growl is closer to a chuckle now, which is less than reassuring to my panicked heartbeat.Twisting my wrists desperately, I am thankful that you are distracted enough by the scent of my arousal that your hands have loosened, allowing me to yank my hands free and scramble from beneath you when you rear back in surprise.

In a second I am on my feet and moving but fruitlessly. Without bothering to stand, you you simply leap at me before I can run, bringing my back down hard enough to see stars. Even more vulnerable now, prone in the crunching leaves I try fiercely to wriggle away, but succeed only in settling your weight more firmly across my body. Your hands pinning my arms now will leave bruises without question, and as I buck against you, I can feel you growing harder against my exposed ass from the writhing kiss of skin on skin and the intoxication of complete power over me. Redoubling my efforts, I only earn myself the sharp, bruising pain of your teeth in the back of my neck.

The force of your teeth in my neck flips a switch in the deeply primal, feline part of my psyche and I drop limply beneath you in surrender. I can feel your mild surprise and confusion in the increased pressure on my arms anticipating a trick, but there is no trick now. Your teeth in the back of my neck give the most primitive aching corner of my psyche a simple message: He wins. This is earned.

With a low moan, my head drops to the forest floor and I writhe beneath you in blatant invitation, arching my neck slightly into your teeth. Despite the lust I can now smell equally clearly on you, your suspicion remains and my arms are dragged behind my back to be pinned one handed while you lift yourself slightly from my body and drawing a whimpering moan from me. Lifting my hips in primitive request, I am surprised by the sharp smack to my ass until it’s quickly followed by one large hand pressing my face back into dirt when I lift it in startled inquiry. There is a potent reminder in the rough force that regardless of any change of heart, initiative today is unwelcome and control of this moment resides firmly and completely in your hands. A soft whimper escapes my throat as I subside back to the ground, fighting my own urge to press into you. Your chuckle is nearly human now, and the hand that runs caressingly down my side is a clear reward for my obedience, which draw another small whimper from my throat, but this time in gratitude for the gentle touch.

I revel a little now in the vulnerability of my position- naked, prone, wrists pinned in one of your hands at the small of my back, and your body easily pinning mine. The heat of your skin and scent of it rubbing into mine is enough to make me moan and ache to arch into you, even as your legs roughly part mine and I can feel the hard length of you pressed against my ass. No fear of punishment or desire for obedience is enough to stop my hips from rising to meet you, and even your free hand roughly pressing me back down elicits not the slightest contrition.

Finally, finally, I feel the head of you nudging me, opening me, and when my inner lips finally part and you slide inside of me the sound pulled from my throat is matched only by your low sound of satisfaction.

I am physically incapable of stillness now, not with the heavy heat of you inside of me, stretching and filling me, and shortly I am writhing beneath you and matching every pump of your hips. I can feel you stroking my g-spot with every thrust, but your hand forcing my face back into the ground reminds me once more that my input here is not encouraged, and for the moment I am simply prey to be taken and enjoyed. I can’t not rock my hips to meet yours, can’t stop the steady stream of moaning whimpers spilling from my parted and dirt-covered lips. I may not be able to control any of this interaction, but neither fear nor obedience can stop me from responding to it, can stop the steady stream of pleading sounds ripped from my throat as you fuck me.

I have no idea how much time passes, no idea when  my body finishes adjusting to yours and the movement of my hips roughens, deepens and matches yours. I have no idea when the painful pressure of your cockhead against my cervix becomes almost pleasure, or if I just stopped caring due to the endorphin rush. I have no idea when sweat and arousal mixed to create the potent, slippery scent permeating the air around us, or when you released my hands and let me brace myself for your thrusts.

I have no idea when the last shred of control fell from us both, or when your teeth found my neck again. I have no idea how much time passed before I felt the telltale speeding of your hips, the change of your thrusts to cross the line into pain, or the clenching of your hands on my hips. I only know the effect on me, only know the anticipation that rocked my hips to match every painful pleasurable stroke. I only know the tightening of your hands on my hips- another set of bruises I anticipated with pleasure now- and the growling roar pulled from your throat as you spilled yourself in me.

I only know the mini-orgasm that tightened my body as my lover’s orgasm always does, and the heated collapse of your body across mine, spilling me again into the dirt. I only know the tight wrapping of your arms around my body, pinning me close to you and ignoring my half-hearted attempts to move. I only know the chuckling, raspy words spoken with an effort and growled into my ear, “Who says you’re done yet?”

Bloody Lips

Turn my brain off. 

Wrap your fingers in my hair and shut down my mind. No more thinking, weighing, analyzing, judging. Just the painful weight of my body hanging by my hair from your hands as you remind me what, in this place, I am. 

Just the musky scent of your arousal against my face, the painful mashing of my lips and jaw against your zipper, hard enough to cut my lips and leave tiny spots of blood on the front of your pants. I wonder how, back at work, you will explain that. Will you tell them you cut yourself? Wrap a bandaid on your hand for verisimilitude? Or will you just tell them that you pressed a woman's face to your cock hard enough to cut her lips on your zipper?

Escaping my head

I need you today.
I need you to fuck me, to use me, to hurt me.

I need you to force me to my knees, so that the floor is gritty beneath them and the mild pain resonates with the tearing in my scalp from your grip on my hair.
I need you to force my mouth open with your fingers and replace them with your cock, to rape my mouth and use it as roughly as you want. I need you to choke me with it, to force tears of pain from my eyes with your hands in my hair and your cock in my mouth.

I need to taste you cum in me, hands forcing me against your groin until I am choking on you and my nose is smashed against your skin and I cannot swallow but know I have no choice.

I need you to leave your cock there, to feel you pat my head roughly and tell me that it isn't over, and to suck you hard again. I need the frantic desire to please you, soft tongue wrapping around you, stroking the head of you, aching to feel you harden and fill up my mouth again.
I need to feel that hardening, feel your hips thrust against my mouth as I strain to keep my teeth away from you, feeling them cut into my lips as I take their sharpness rather than inflict it on you.

I need to feel you pull out of my mouth, to see you smile at my little whimper of loss, my eyes widening as you yank me to my feet, turning my roughly and bending me over. I need to feel your hands on my ass, roughly spreading me apart, your feet kicking my legs wide, your cock roughly probing at my pussy. I need the sharp pain of your entrance without prepapration, the wet slap of skin against skin as you chuckle at the abundance of my arousal. I can't quite hear your rough whisper, but it sounds like, "slut"... or maybe that's my wishful thinking.

God, I need to feel you sliding into me, stretching me, filling me. I need to feel your hands on my hips, roughly yanking me onto you until every thrust is its own pain as well as pleasure. I can't help but writhe away from the pain of your cockhead bumping my cervix with every thrust, and my little whimpers of pain and pleasure only cause your hands to tighten painfully on my hips.
This, this is what I need. This feeling of being used- helpless, hanging from your hands, hurting and soaked with arousal and needing more and more.
I need this. Need the bruising strength of your hand on my hip, another carelessly toying with my breasts in an almost absent gesture of ownership. There is nothing here of concern for my pleasure, none of the tentative fumblings of a lifetime of boys hoping for another chance if they're only gentle enough, giving enough. I do not want gentle, and all I want to be given is this- your cruelty, your desire, your cock.

My mind is clear, a blank slate with only these sensations running through me. In this moment I am nothing but a body for you to fuck and it is a peaceful place, a place where I am succeeding at my only goal, and when I feel your rhythm change, speed up, your cock flexing inside of me and your hands tightening on my hips, I know that I have truly succeeded as you begin to cum.
This moment is my reward, this straining, bruising, pleasure of having pleased you, and as you drop your hands from me I can only fall limply back to my knees, boneless with submission and pleasure, my head turning langourously to gently lick you clean as your hands rests, quietly now, in my hair.

Thinking about it

I have avoided writing about this, hiding it from the page as though it will hide it from knowledge.

Hide it from memory, hide it from admission.

Part of me is ashamed, I suppose, of the pleasure I take in those brief times of submission to you. That's not who I am, not who I'm supposed to be.... and yet it is, and it is a reality that to pretend away would somehow lessen, cheapen, and I will not to do that.

It was my trust in you, my willing submission to you, which prompted your choice to wear the collar, and I will not cheapen that by pretending it away.

I think about it, you know- about the brilliant psychopathy in your eyes, and your twisted grin. I know what you're imagining, know the pain you'd like to give me and the blood you'd like to spill from my skin. Yes, I know.

I think about it- about the sensation of your hand on my throat, just thisside of terrifying, the back of my mind fear that this time the collar will slip a little, this time no one will check you, and you will squeeze too hard, too long, grinning that maniacal grin while the blood drains from my brain and I slip into the darkness.

I think about it- the contrasting tenderness and cruelty of your hands, so like what I give to your other side, and yet so uniquely yours. About the way that they make me writhe, and whimper, and moan. About the way that the madness in your eyes makes me want to please you.

About the madness in your eyes that makes you want to break me.

I'd almost let you... if I thought I'd survive it.

Yes, I think about it.

Movie Night

A warm tangle of bodies, heat and scent and skin stroking skin until I am drowning in this heavy pool of pleasure which is centered on my guest bed. Her soft breasts against my cheek, teeth in my lip, his warm hands kneading my skin until I am moaning, whimpering, my body arching into theirs.

Her strong hands kneading knots from my shoulders, my neck, slowly encircling my throat and this is not her intention but I am slipping down the rabbit hole into the warm center of my own desire and submission. I already wanted to please her, but now the last button to my willingness has been pressed by her thumb against my larynx.

When her teeth find my lip again, it is enough to send me writhing and whimpering against her, his teeth on my breast clenching my hands helplessly against his back.

I know on some vague level I should be reciprocating more, know that she loves to receive the same small bites which I do, but every movement feels like swimming through warm, sticky arousal-honey and I can barely move except to press closer into his hands, harder into her teeth and I am drowning pleasantly in the love and affection of these two people whom I have come to love intensely.

I do not know if either realizes how deeply down the rabbit hole I have slipped, how warm and hazy my mind feels until I am nothing but a body of sensations and desires and willingness. I do not know if either realizes how much I crave now the sensation of teeth sinking into my skin, of hands tightening painfully on my body, of fingers wrapping around my throat and squeezing, but this is not what they give tonight and the same corner of my mind which craves more also accepts that.

When his mouth finds my breast again, his teeth against my nipple, I can only arch harder into her mouth and moan in pleasure and desire and an inarticulate need to please. I want to slide to my knees from the bed, my mouth running slowly down her body, his hands anchoring me and holding me in place, and slowly find the soft center of her with questing lips and tongue until she screams and arches into me....

Shower sex fantasy

You masturbated today, thinking about me.

The knowledge warmed my groin, tingled in my fingertips, and set my mind to racing.

You were in the shower, you said, letting the hot water soak into your sore muscles and thinking about me.

Thinking about, you said, your hand on my throat, my body pressed between yours and the slick shower tiles.

I can see it, feel it- my breasts smashed into the tile, my cheek tight to the cool plaster, your hands on my hips, my waist, cupping my buttocks, wrapped around my throat and tight in my hair.

There are very few people I trust with their hands on my throat, their fingers in my hair, but in 3 years you have more than earned this and at the brush of even phantom fingers against my vulnerable throat I can feel the almost subliminal shiver running down my spine.

I can feel your hands moving along my body, the steam of the shower opening my skin until I could almost sink into you. I can feel the heat of you, hotter than water pounding into my

skin, against my back, your legs molding to mine and opening them with that casually

assuming insistence which should infuriate me but with your hand on my throat seems only

natural. I can feel the weight of you pressing me forward, my breasts painfully tight

against the wall, my pelvis following yours without conscious thought tilting and opening to

you and to the length of your cock pressed against my ass.

Gods I want this! In even the writing I can feel my body shifting, opening, dampening in preparation for you inside me, and inside my head I can feel the head of you nudging me

open, the slow stretch of my body opening to you, opening for you, feeling you fill me with

that damned patience that I both love and hate about you.

More, more, I want to scream at you- Now! But with your hand on my throat all I can do is whimper and rock my hips back into you, begging wordlessly for you to fuck me.

Memories

I remember the last time that I bottomed to him.

Such a silly phrase: "bottomed to him."

I remember the last time that he pinned me down and I bared my soul to him.

I remember the last time that I cried in his arms.

Oh he was so worried as he left! Knowing that I was just post-catharsis and fragile and he was already so late, so late!

I remember his face as a study of love and worry for me, and his eyes- jade light when he is happy- forest green with concern.

But it was that concern that promised that I would be okay.

It was that concern, that knowledge- gut-deep- that he loved me, that made me certain that I would be okay when he left.

I remember kissing him and promising to call if I need him, but that I was okay.

I remember that his lips still tasted salty from my tears.

Consumed

I want your hands on me. I want your hands on my skin, and your fingers tangled in my hair. I want your lips, your teeth, on mine.

Oh, my body is sore today and weak, more sensitive to pain than usual, but I don’t care. I want you to hurt me anyway, I want you to hurt me and to make me feel safe.

I want your body covering mine, pinning mine, forcing me to stillness beneath you as the scent of you fills my lungs. I want to be surrounded by you, consumed by you, consumed in you.

Release

I was crying against his chest.

Fuck, I hadn't meant to do that, hadn't felt it coming on.

Oh, I knew I was stretched wire-tight and close to snapping- cutting Wolf from my life, losing Devilpup, worrying about money and school, and stretched for time- but I hadn't realized that I was this close, so close that all it took was the momentary safety of his arms for the tears to overflow.

I started to pull away, started to apologize, but he laughed. "I've never seen you cry before," and his voice was so deadpan that I actually jerked in shock, my voice a little girl's: "Yes, you have!" and I blushed crimson when he laughed at me.

"Besides, I like it when you cry." HIs voice was huskier now, that sound he gets when he's about to hurt me, and I melted into him before I could stop myself.

He needed to go, had a long drive home... but I couldn't stop myself from responding to him.

And then I was bent in half over my couch, my calves aching with the stretch but my back and ass eagerly arched up to him. It's always like this when I let myself fall down the rabbit hole with him... one moment I'm in control, considering, thinking, weighing alternatives... and the next I'm nothing but a throbbing pile of nerves and needs in his control.

Part of me hates it- hates the vulnerability that it creates in me- but the rest of me melts eagerly into his hands. He's the only person these days I feel safe enough with to let go, and I've been hanging on painfully tightly lately.

I wish I could write you hot porn about the things he did to me, the way that he hurt me until I cried for him, and not just for myself. I wish that I could describe the things that he did and the sexiness of it... but I can't. I can only remember flashes of the actual events, the actual blows...

My voice, small and nearly unintelligible as it escapes a throat clogged with tears, "Hurt me please until I have an excuse to cry," and the way that his eyes lit up in that insanity that I love so much.

His fists, thudding into my ass and thighs, the sharp pain of each spank until I'm writhing away from him, unable to stop myself... and his hand in my hair, painfully tight while his voice whispers viciously in my ear, "keep your ass where I want it, bitch," until I struggle to obey him.

His eyes, lit up with demonic pleasure at my tear-streaked and reddened face, telling me how hot it makes him to see me cry like this. He is so beautiful, I remember thinking briefly, before I couldn't think anymore at all.

My mouth on his chest, him telling me to suck his nipple while I cried, and my struggles to obey and please him around my sobs, the vicious pleasure on his face while I strain to obey him.

My face resting on his thighs while I'm kneeling on my hard floor, kissing gently, thanking him over and over, unsure if any sound is escaping my mouth or not... but knowing that he can hear me.

Healers, heal thyselves

I knew that I needed release, and I hoped to find it in sadism tonight. There is no one available I could bottom to, I thought.

But dyring the auction, I sat next to a beautiful woman in a marvelous waist-cincher corset. We chatted, and she told me she does cuttings and piercings.

The words were out of my mouth before I knew what I'd said, "If you have the energy tonight, I think I'd like to bottom to that."

I wonder if she noticed how stunned I was that I'd just said that. Just asked to bottom to someone I had just met, and not only bottom but offer them my flesh in the most intimate ritual that I know.

But she readily agreed, and I arranged the medical room for midnight. The Witching Hour, in popular lore, and a closing to Lughnassad, the first of the festivals of harvest.

The night was lovely- a beautiful boy to play with courtesy of his lovely Lady, some excellent company, and a nice athmosphere. But in me was growing a low buzz of excitement that I didn't even recognize for what it was until I saw her again.

She led me into the medical room, and we discussed the preliminaries. I have low blood sugar, but I'd eaten. I'm a bit of bleeder, don't mind people watching. My mind was still unfocused, looking for something but unaware of what. I was excited, knew that I needed this, but something was missing.

And then she asked me, "What design do you want?" and it snapped into place.

This was my ritual. This was my healing.

I bared my breasts, and the discussion began.

Once, long, long ago, my patroness was Artemis, the Huntress. Night-swift and sheer, cruel and loving and loyal and wild. Goddess of the Moon, of Hunters, and of Virgins. In her guise as Hecate, Queen of the Witches and Guardian of the Crossroads.

I learned of my Lady of the Wild Places in the 6th grade, in a book of Greek mythology. I had no idea what paganism was, that anyone still believed in or worshipped the old Gods. But I walked the woods near my home, a wild and free thing, and I talked to her. I asked her questions, I told her my secrets, and I came home comforted.

When I was 13, I learned of my faith. Mostly, I learned that I'm not alone in what I'd come to believe.

When I was 15, I lost my virginity in a story which you can read here, but I'll not go into today. But I still belonged to Artemis because I was still a virgin in the Greek sense of the word- a woman who is owned by no man. Chastity had little to do with it, it was that she- and I- belonged

only to ourselves.

When I was 17, I met Wolf.

And I no longer believed that Artemis was a suitable Patroness for me, because he owned me. Oh, not in a D/s sort of way, but he owned my heart, and it was on him that I based most of my decisions and it was for him that I tried to change who I was.

For 7 long years, I've missed my Patroness, my first Goddess and one of my dearest friends. I've spent 7 years believing that I belong, on some level, to a man.

Last night, during the Witching Hour, with a Priestess as my Guide (trust me to go to a BDSM party and meet a Priestess!), I reclaimed my Self, my Heart, and my Goddess.

She leaned over me, and we shared ourselves and our hearts as she sliced into my flesh. She has her own wounds, as do we all, and the ritual we shared healed some of hers, too. I'm grateful for that, I wouldn't have it any other way than that my healing aided in someone else's as well- and I believe that the Universe knew that when It engineered this little bit of synchronicity.

The scalpel is sharp, and in the books they say that there is no pain because of it. They lie.

I Am My Own.

No, I am not ignoring or forgetting my amazing Jack- but he has never sought to own me, merely to share in my life.

I had to breathe, in, out, in, out, in out, and she checked on me. Compassion and love and pain and healing in her eyes the mirror of my own.

I Am My Own.

Not Wolf's, not any man or woman's.

It took a long time, getting the curves just right. I've practiced this myself to do on Lucivar, and it's hard. But my right breast- the one which they say that the Amazons, worshippers of Artemis, cut off to shoot better- is scarring now with a small crescent moon, the symbol of my renewed bond with my Goddess, and my healing from a wound that is 7 years old.

I Am My Own.

Thank you, Lady Steele, for your gift of healing.

His eyes

Empty. Scrubbed clean by pain and penance, body bearing the marks and heart the healing. 

It had hurt, and she'd considered crying, "Mercy!" but always, the look in his eyes stopped her. One part madness, one part rage mixed with pain... and one part love. 

It was the love that undid her, the love that made her offer her throat to his hands, her wrists to the rope. 

The rage she could have fought, the madness feared, the pain lamented... but the love... it was the love that undid her, and brought her to her knees for him as she had never knelt before. It was the love that reminded her to breathe through the pain he gave her, let her accept the penance without anger or retribution. Let her welcome it.

It was the love that made her hate herself for hurting him, and love him the more for forgiving her.

The chain around her neck, drawing tighter until air was a struggle.

The hands slapping her thighs, until she gritted her teeth in pain and the need to twist away.

The knuckles in her breastbone, making her writhe in agony.

Part of her wanted to fight, wanted to struggle, wanted to hurt him for bringing this pain to her... but even that part quieted when she looked into his eyes. They paled in his madness, in this grip of sociopathy, of love. Wide as they were when she hurt him, but different somehow.

Still beautiful.

And still filled with love. 

It was the love that undid her. 

The Knight-errant

I need someone to hurt me. 

I need someone to beat the ever-loving shit out of me. 

Unfortunately, there's no one whom I can ask.  

Yes, Jack would be happy to oblige. 

Yes, Lucivar loves to hurt me. 

Yes, the Cunning Linguist would thoroughly enjoy beating the crap out of me. 

Yes, Ahela has been hinting at wanting to play again, and breaking me would be an excellent return in his eyes. 

But there's no one I can ask. 

Jack is part of my stress. Our relationship is doing extremely well, and so is he, but the last few weeks have been very hard on us both and he has a role in my stress. That is not to say that its his fault, or that he's in any way to blame. That would be like blaming the clouds for being part of the hurricane. 

Lucivar is my responsibility. I'm still in Knight-Errant mode, and can't get out of it. The Knight in my head considers him Mine, and therefore someone I care for and protect, not someone I ask for help. 

Normally, I'm perfectly happy to ask him to hurt me- we both enjoy it thoroughly, but I've pushed myself far deeper into this mindset than usual (it's been necessary the last week), and I can't get out of it.

Part of why I need to have the shit beaten out of me is to force me out of it. See the paradox?

The Cunning Linguist would love to, and will be happy to... in 2 weeks when he's next in town. He lives three hours away, and works days. 

As for Ahela, well... let it suffice to say that I am not sure that repeating old choices is wise in this case. I don't trust him to be there for me in the long-term (or even the medium), and besides... it's not as though he's available in-person for a real beating. 

So yeah. I'm stuck in Knight-errant mode, drowning under the weight of the world on my shoulders and knowing in my logical mind that my responsibilities have been discharged and I can relax and let go... but unable to. 

Unable to believe for real that I can let down my guard, set aside my shield. 

I need to be forced to helplessness, made to fight until I am panting, bleeding, and, finally, forced to surrender. 

But I know that in this mindset, I won't be capable of surrendering to those to whom I perceive myself as having a repsonsibility to be strong for.

Paradox.

Forgiveness

We sat in the car, side by side and not looking at one another except brief, short glances... stolen, like kisses in the twilight. 

Normally, when we're together I can feel him like a humming warmth along the line of body closest to him. 

I couldn't today.

I'd hurt him, broken his trust and we were both payig the piper for it. 

My chest hurt- a solid, dull ache that felt like the weight of tears. I'd done everything I knew how to do- explained, and apologized, and now I waited. Waited for the little boy in his heart to crawl out of hiding and decide if he would trust me again. 

Abruptly, I shifted, uncomfortable.The shift reminded me of my wallet in my back pocket, and I removed it before it could get any more uncomfortable.

He watched me move, and I heard his amused, exasperated sound, and before I could look over again my wallet was snatched from my hand and I was being smacked with it and his hand was on the back of my neck. 

It was the first time he'd voluntarily touched me since he'd gotten into the car, and I melted into him. Guilt isn't the Toppiest of feelings, and I sank into bottomspace gratefully.

I'm going to take this thing and beat you with it, one day. Stop wearing it in your back pocket!

I giggled at the image- my wallet being used as a paddle- and he wrapped his hand in my hair.

I always wear it in my back pocket. I've been doing it for 10 years and I'm not going to stop now. It's not like I carry a purse. 

He was smiling now, a more honest expression than anything I'd seen on his face in days.

I'm going to beat you with it one day until there are bruises and you'll wince and be like, 'They're from my wallet on my ass!'

I giggled, and curled into him.

He kissed my forehead. 

Are we better now? I wanted to ask, but when I looked at his face, I saw my answer. 

And I almost cried again, but this time from joy.  

Burned

My home fries burned. 

I'd say I feel bad about this, but I'd be lying.

Right through my teeth.

Because you know why they burned?

They burned because I was on the kitchen floor, sucking Jack's cock while he beat me over the shoulders and back with his belt. 

Yeah.

Who needs food after that?

Lunch date

His hand was wrapped around my throat. Such a pretty little neck, he said softly. Almost like it was made for my hand, he told me. I whimpered and nodded as best I could in his grip. 

Moments like this, I could believe that my body had been made for his touch.

His hand moved, fingers dug into that sensitive spot on my jaw, just below my ear. It hurt, and I made small pain sounds, writhing just a little against him. 

Do you want me to stop? he asked. 

I gave it a moments thought. I could hear the smile in his voice, the utter joy he feels at hurting me. I wanted him to keep feeling that joy.

No, I whispered. 

He dug in harder, another finger pressing into the sensitive spot just below my nose and I shivered with the effort it took not to fight his big hands. I whimpered, pressed tightly into him. 

A moment or an hour later, slowly, reluctance clear in his hands, he released me, his hands moving to cradle me against him. Good girl, he whispered to me. Good girl. 

Bookstore Bottoming

We were sitting on the floor at the bookstore, in the late autumn sunshine, my head in his lap.
I was reading another Anita Blake book (I'm not really that obsessed with them, I just decided to reread the series because it's been a while), and generally just enjoying his company. He petted my hair as I read, and I made small, happy noises.

He leaned down, kissing me gently, and I parted my lips for him.
I've been feeling pretty submissive lately, so this was nice.
He gripped my jaw gently while I opened my mouth for him, and he explored me gently with his tongue, soft and wet against my lips.
I made small, happy sounds for him, writhing a little.
He tightened his grip and my noises got happier.

He smiled. I love that evil look in his eyes. Usually, I see that evil look when we're sharing toys over the helpless body of some hapless masochist, but today, seeing it in his eyes just for me, I shivered.
I know exactly how twisted his mind is.

He caressed me gently, until I writhed a little and couldn't stand it anymore.
"Hurt me, please?" I whispered, before I could lose my nerve.
Almost instantly, his hand tightened around my throat and I closed my eyes, back arching in pleasure.
He released my throat slowly, almost reluctantly and petted me a little while I made more small happy sounds. Then he wrapped his fingers in my hair and dragged my head around a little, sending me instantly under even further.
Goddess, I love that sensation.
He pulled my face up to his and kissed me- gently, the barest brush of lips while his- then dug his nails into my throat.
His teeth into my ear.
I was whimpering softly, trying not to draw attention to myself in the bookstore, but too aroused to care very much.
He took my finger into his mouth, biting down until I gasped.

And then he wrapped me in his arms, and told me that he loves me.

In the mood to submit

I'm in the mood to submit.

I'm starting to relax again as things calm down, but I'm still a little tense.
So I'm in the mood to submit.

I'm in the mood for your hand in my hair, your voice a harsh whisper against my ear. I'm in the mood to feel that thrill of fear when you touch me, that moment of wondering of whether you'll hurt me or not. That shivering uncertainty of whether your next touch will be a caress or a blow.

I'm in the mood to hear you call me your little whore, to feel your hand wrapped around my throat and squeezing. To feel my breath cut off with a soft gasp, that spurt of panic when I can't breathe. The melting trust as I realize that you control even the flow of air into my lungs.

I'm in the mood to feel myself pressed into your body, your grip tight, painful, on my cunt even as it makes me wet. To feel your lips brush mine with frightening tenderness even as you whisper the things you want to do to me.

I'm in the mood to have you hurt me. To feel you press into the tenderest parts of me until my mouth gapes in a silent scream. To feel my sense of Baumeister's 'self' slip away until I am only a body, only a bundle of nerves and wires for your manipulation.

I'm in the mood to submit to you.

To give you my body to use, my mind to break.

I want you to break me. I want you to hurt me, to use me, to break me.